


Smile

by PaxEirene (ValaEnVash)



Series: My Hollow Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Grief, Hallucinations, I really need to work on my tags, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Questionable Mental State, Sherlock - Season 1, Sherlock - Season 2, Slightly anthropomorphic London, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:09:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 10,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValaEnVash/pseuds/PaxEirene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all began the day they met, our intrepid boys. It wouldn't be long before their journey made headlines... and headstones. (A series(ish) inspired by 'Smile' by Uncle Kracker.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You make me smile like the sun

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual: Do not own. Do not profit. Wish I did. (That would be amazing...)

John Watson was hot on the heels of Sherlock Holmes, possibly the maddest and most annoying man he'd ever met. He couldn't begin to wonder what compelled him to follow Holmes, but he also couldn't be arsed to deny the offer of 'danger' in his recently boring world.

John closed the door of 221B Baker Street behind him and all but collapsed against the wall of the entryway. God, adrenaline was a miracle!

He gulped oxygen greedily and eyed the strange man at his side out of the corner of his eye. "That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"You invaded Afghanistan."

John couldn't help the chuckles that bubbled up, drawing Sherlock into laughs along with him, "That wasn't just me. Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

"They can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So, what were we doing there?"

Sherlock cleared his throat nonchalantly (Though if you knew Sherlock, you'd know this was clearly an affectation... or a stalling measure. Or both.). "Oh, just passing the time." He glanced to John, "And proving a point."

John had gotten his breath again, and silently berated himself for his lack fitness since he'd been invalided. "What point?"

"You." Raising his voice to be heard clearly, "Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs." 

"Says who?"

"Says the man at the door."

The knocking surprised him but Sherlock only smiled. 

Never let it be said John Watson and Sherlock Holmes weren't mad as hatters to be so pleased at the sudden appearance of each in their lives.


	2. Fall out of bed, Sing like a bird

Dusty, dry heat. Heavy weight on his back. Sweat pouring from every pore. Skin that had previously burned, blistered, healed, had tanned to withstand the burning desert sun.

Screams echoed from the rubble, only broken by the loud pops and bangs of guns being discharged. Moans from the injured, crying from the survivors.

God, the pain! Red and black obscured his vision, made his mind go white as it obliterated his thoughts.

His throat was sore and dry from yelling orders to retreat, commanding the soldier he was treating to stay awake, to look at him, stay with him. Then screaming when his shoulder erupted in agony and thrust him to the ground.

Faintly, he heard the _pop-pop-pop_ of return fire, thuds of bodies hitting the ground, then the harsh slide of sand and rock against his back and legs as his comrades dragged him to safety.

Safety. Ha.

The soldier carrying him over his shoulder stumbled, went down hard. Stayed down. He turned his head to see the young man's life blood pour in gushing waves from under his helmet.

Those eyes, blue and grey and silver and green, slightly almond-shaped. Skin pale as milk over a lanky, slight frame.

No. No no no no NO! This was wrong. Wrong in so many ways. But the pain overrode everything else. He saw, heard nothing else. Tasted his own blood in his mouth, smelled it in the heat of the day. Felt his body burst into flames.

John fought with the blankets wrapped around his legs, throat hoarse from screaming in his sleep, and rolled out of bed to thump heavily to the floor. Had he not left the bedside light on, he would have sworn he'd woken up in a medical tent in Afghanistan.

Being invalided, coming home, meeting Sherlock Holmes. All of it could have very well been the fevered imaginings of his brain as the infection from the gunshot wound in his left shoulder spread to his brain.

But, no. He was in England, in London, at 221B Baker Street. Home.

John sat up carefully, already feeling the ache and flare of pain in his shoulder, dragged himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, and scrubbed sweat from his face. A deep breath helped steady his nerves as he dropped his hands limp between his knees.

Would they never stop? The nightmares, the terrors, the memories?

John dug the heel of his palm into the scar tissue to loosen some of the tension, and, using the breathing techniques he'd learned, calmed his racing heart.

When his pulse stopped pounding in his ears, he heard faint strains of violin music drifting up through the floorboards. Sherlock must have heard him thrashing about in his sleep before thunking to the hardwood.

John smiled to himself, humming along to the mellow tune. Glenn Miller's 'Moonlight Sonata'.

Whatever anyone else thought of his flatmate, John liked to think he knew Sherlock better than anyone. Better even than Mycroft claimed, even though John had only lived at Baker Street for slightly less than six months. Therefore, he knew Sherlock had emotions and feelings. John knew he felt sentiment, though John also knew Sherlock would vociferously deny the accusation. John also knew that his friend did not like it one bit when John's past would creep into his subconscious dreaming mind to torture him just a bit more.

This was not the first night John would lose sleep to nightmares and memories. Nor would it be the last night he would wake to hear Sherlock using his talent to coax beautiful music from his violin in order to soothe his frazzled nerves. It would not be the last night John might smile softly to himself, calm now, and lay down to sleep again. It would not be the last night he might abandon his bed as a lost cause to trek downstairs for tea and a personal concert.

It would, however, be the final night in which the former RAMC Captain, Doctor John Hamish Watson, would wake in a cold sweat, gather his wits, and look to the bedside table where his Browning L9A1 rested.


	3. Dizzy in my head, Spin like a record

Carl Frederick - serial rapist and murderer - was much faster than Sherlock had anticipated. Stronger too, if the piece of lumber he'd smashed into Sherlock's back was any indication. For a moment, the world went a fuzzy gray as the ground spun up to meet him, and John's shout echoed in his ears.

Fear overwhelmed John when Sherlock hit the ground, but the battle-scarred soldier reacted immediately, pulling his gun, aiming, and firing, all in the space of a few racing heartbeats. The bullet impacted Frederick in the right bicep. A pained grunt and a growl preceded his charge at John.

John evaded and tackled Frederick to the ground very efficiently, but just as quickly, Frederick bounced John off of him and managed to jump back to his feet. Sherlock watched blearily as Frederick gained his footing, as John set his stance and swung a fist. But Frederick shifted, slid, grabbed John's wrist and arm, and used John's own momentum to swing him round to impact with the alley wall.

Dazed, John couldn't do much to fight Frederick off, so when the man pressed his front to John's back and placed a large knife at John's neck, John stilled. Black spots ate at his vision _(Concussion? Likely.)_ and his non-injured shoulder burned at the joint _(Not dislocated. Probably strained.)_.

Seeing John pinned between brick and man spurred Sherlock to action, yelling, "CARL!" as he sprinted toward them

Frederick jerked and the knife slipped, drawing a white hot line of pain across John's neck. A hand in his hair gripped, jerked back, and slammed his head into the brick before dropping him to the ground. _Definite concussion now._

John vaguely heard what might have been Sherlock shouting, hands turning him over and reaching into his waistband (Had he been lucid... _Well_...), then drawing John's gun. A loud retort, followed immediately by his name being shouted _(definitely Sherlock this time)_ , before the blackness won.

Hours later, John woke in a surprisingly comfortable hospital bed - he'd know the smell of antiseptic cleanser and Triclosan anywhere. Not surprisingly, moving hurt like hell. Bandages covered wounds on his head and neck, while his right arm was caught in a sling _(Strained then. Lovely.)_

John closed his eyes again, determined to make the best of the stillness and quiet to get some much-needed healing sleep. There's no telling when Sher- Oh.

Very, very carefully, John cracked an eyelid open and turned his head to the left. _(Oh, dizzy.)_ But there, head propped on the side of John's bed, Sherlock slept with a hand wrapped around John's wrist. _Taking my pulse._ John smiled down at his friend, and wished (very, very, very, deep down, but not really that far away) he could place his hand on Sherlock's tousled head. Just to comfort them both, mind you, but the grip on his wrist canceled that right out.

Well, that's that then. John hummed lightly under his breath, smiled, and closed his eyes to will away the spinning. Sleep claimed him quickly enough that he missed the slight squeeze on his wrist. But there would be time enough for that later.


	4. Crazy on a Sunday night

Halloween in London Town was something to behold, and John Watson was making the most of his vantage point at the window in his flat.

Teenagers and adults ran amok in costumes as crazy as any he'd ever seen. Although he could certainly appreciate the cadre of skimpy outfits on naughty nurses, butterflies, and fairies, not to mention the assorted goth girls and club chicks. He chuckled to himself at a group of obviously drunk people clutching each other and giggling as they walked down Baker Street.

Rustling cloth and sure, steady steps alerted him to his flatmate's presence seconds before his entry into the sitting room...dressed in classic Phantom of the Opera get-up. Shock overcame him for a few precious moments. He'd just been ogling the girls outside and admiring their curvy forms. Then Sherlock shows up _with his own curvy figure..._ just for John to be hit with a spike of lust that almost made him fumble his drink. Thank God Sherlock had his back turned at that precise moment.

"What is God's name are you wearing?"

Sherlock arched an elegant brow at his friend. _(Elegant...?)_ "It's a costume, John. Surely you're aware of the social custom requiring one to alter one's identity with a variety of outfits and accessories for the sake of 'tricks' and or 'treats'?"

Thoroughly confused, John watched his friend fiddle with the calf-length cape portion of his outfit. "Yes, I am aware. But that doesn't explain why you, of all people, are conforming to _any_ social expectations."

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Really, John. I'm not completely ignorant when it comes to socializing."

"Ha!" John pointed an accusing finger and abandoned his post at the window to stalk a few steps nearer. "Come on, Sherlock. Out with it."

"You know my methods, John. Apply them." A smirk and an entirely too gleeful gleam in the detective's eye, and then he got it.

John groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "A case."

"Exactly!" Quick as a snake, Sherlock snatched John's hand from his face and dragged him through the kitchen to Sherlock's bedroom. Had he not been internally groaning at the idea of chasing his madman through the streets of London and the crowds the night would surely bring, he might have been more wary. However, after being thrust into the room and instructed to change, John may have temporarily lost his mind.

As it turns out, their destination was a costume party in a posh area of London, and Sherlock was crashing it, dragging his now-dressed-as-a-pirate-flatmate/friend/partner. _(Sherlock was NOT prepared for that to be a turn-on...)_

Less than three hours later, the thief Sherlock had been hired to catch was being taken into custody by a vampire (DI Greg Lestrade) and a naughty nurse (DS Sally Donovan). John had yet to contain his giggles as they entered the foyer of 221B.

"You are insane. You drive me crazy, you know that? Absolutely mad. Bonkers. Round the bend."

John's laughter was just as infectious as it had been the first day they'd met, and Sherlock found himself snickering along. "Oh, you love it and you know it." _And maybe one day, you'll love me._

John managed to catch his breath, sighed through the laughter, and smiled up to Sherlock. "God help me, I do, you mad, daft git." He grinned widely. "Idiot."

Their loud, ringing laughter echoed through the building.


	5. Forget how to breathe

Sherlock Holmes had never been one for nightmares. That is, until Moriarty, until pips and bombs, until a poorly-lit pool in the darkest hour of night.

Now, he wakes in a sweat, shaking and with a pain in his chest that, for a moment, felt as if he were having a heart attack. Deep, even breathing helped control some of the panic and fear even as Sherlock scrubbed a hand down his face.

When he'd seen John walk from the stalls that night, he'd forgotten how to breathe for a long moment. His doubts reared their ugly heads and bared their fangs at him, making Sherlock _doubt himself_ for the first time in a very, very long time.

But his friend had not betrayed him. No, instead, Sherlock had almost gotten them both killed... _Again_...

He'd have to remember to thank whomever it had been that made the call to Dear Jim.

Sherlock sighed deeply and would have lain back down to attempt another hour or so of likely troubled rest, but a soft knock at the door made him pause. He slowly got up, put on his dressing gown, and opened the door to... nothing...

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the empty air and made to close his door again, but the warm smell of tea drifted up to him. And there on the floor, he saw a fresh cuppa in a saucer with two chocolate biscuits on the side.

Sherlock smiled softly, thinking John Watson was a lot more observant than he gave him credit for as he lifted his soother, and closed his bedroom door.

John smiled as he heard the porcelain rattle in his friend's hands, then as the latch of the door clicked softly shut.


	6. Shine like gold, Buzz like a bee

The first Christmas holiday John and Sherlock spent together was a quiet one. John was happy to have some time to himself for once, but living with Sherlock between cases was quickly becoming life-threatening... for Sherlock. If John walked into the den _one more time_ and was faced with his flatmate shooting, burning, liquefying, freezing, dismantling, or dismembering anything else, he'd turn the offending method onto his former friend and just be done with it already.

Thankfully, Sherlock had been (miraculously) asleep when John woke Christmas Eve morning. Granted, he'd been face-down at the kitchen table with a vial of something purple in his hand, but he was asleep nonetheless. John just extricated the possibly lethal fluid from Sherlock's hand and left him to his rest. God knew when he'd slept last and John sure as hell wasn't going to wake the man. _(Let him deal with his aches and pains on his own!)_

John spent the majority of the morning doing a little last minute shopping, braving the crowds of London and loving every moment of it. He'd already picked up something for Harry, Mrs. Hudson, and Sarah, and even a bottle of fine bourbon for Lestrade. He'd debated on a little rubber duck-covered parasol for Mycroft, but decided not to push his luck and started racking his brain for Sherlock's surprise.

Halfway home, John passed a small shop, no sign out front lending any clues to it's contents. Unless you counted the gargoyle holding the "Open" sign over the front entry... Quirking one side of his lips up in a parody of a smile, John set his shoulders and braved the unknown.

Thirty minutes later, an awed John Watson departed with a small black bag in hand.

Christmas afternoon, after visitors departed and silence settled over 221B, John and Sherlock were enjoying their tea in their respective chairs. "Oh! I almost forgot! I got you something."

An almost-pained flash flickered across the detective's face when John dropped the parcel in his lap. "John...," he groaned.

John rolled his eyes at his friend and grinned in glee. "Shut up and open it, idiot."

Sherlock, in the fashion of five-year olds the world over, ripped open the ribbon and paper in barely concealed excitement. "Oh." He paused, one hand hovering over the contents. "Oh, John." Delicately long (and deceptively strong) fingers stroked the cover.

John's fortuitous trip in the the little shop had netted him a pristine and first-edition printing of 'An History Of The Wonderful Things In Nature'.

"John. This... It's beautiful." Sherlock's voice, along with his vocabulary, had deserted him in his surprise.

"I thought you might like the second chapter under "Of The Description Of Natural Wonders".

Sherlock carefully and quickly turned to the pages and read "Concerning Bees". Sherlock's gaze froze on the page before shooting to John. He'd 'lectured' John before on the brilliance of apiculture, but he could never be sure how much John really heard. Or comprehended. As a matter of fact, John had admitted on more than one occasion that he had almost perfected the art of the "Nod and Grunt" acknowledgements to his friend's random trains of thought and non-case-related deduction.

He did nothing to hide the barest sheen in his eyes before carefully closing the book and holding it close to his chest.

"Thank you, John," he whispered. "This is... the most wonderful thing I've ever received."

John smiled at his friend. "You're welcome, Sherlock. Happy Christmas."


	7. Just the thought of you can drive me wild

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was, to put it mildly, screwed.

He wanted nothing more than to bang his head on his desk until his consciousness had blissfully departed. But, no. He was denied even that.

Why?

Simple.

Sherlock Bloody Holmes' older brother, Mycroft.

Greg had met the man years ago, soon after Sherlock had burst onto the scene (literally) and solved the homicide case Greg and his team had been assigned.

To make things even even worse, the mad genius had solved it while high as a kite in the March winds on god know what. (Greg knew now it had been a combination of cocaine, lack of proper sleep, and a definitive lack of proper nutrition.)

Mycroft had shown up in Greg's office not long after, thanking the detective for his discretion on behalf of his little brother. Mycroft had made it quite clear that Sherlock's behaviour had actually been _hindered_ by the drugs. The rest of the conversation was a bit of a blur, but somehow, he'd been talked into allowing Sherlock to "assist".

"Of course, it would be your decision into which cases he'd be allowed to participate, but I trust your discretion in the matter."

Mycroft left not long after.

Five years later, John Watson had shown up, tagging along with Sherlock to the crime scene in Brixton, and nothing had been the same since.

Greg no longer feared finding his friend unconscious in a pool of his own vomit, or being called to investigate the death of Sherlock Holmes. Instead, he had a ridiculously high case-closure record, almost no overturns when taking said criminals to court, and a team he could count on - regardless of the inappropriate office romances.

He also had a failed marriage, a drinking habit that had (thankfully) not gotten out of control, and too many instances of having his warrant card stolen. To top it all off, he'd just come to the realization that he had feelings for Mycroft Holmes. Just the thought of the man in his suit and waistcoat, twirling his umbrella as casual as you please, could drive Greg Lestrade spare.

The seasoned detective just groaned once more, cursing his bloody luck at falling for not just any man, but the British Government, and wished - not for the last time that day - for a stiff drink and a cigarette. He finally gave into temptation and bounced his forehead on his blotter a few times, hoping to knock some sense into himself.

Not too far away, in a well-appointed yet understated office, the very same British Government wished he could be doing quite the same thing for quite the same reason.


	8. Oh, You make me smile

Buckingham Palace.

Well, it just goes to show you never know where you'll find yourself at the end of the day when you're friends with Sherlock Holmes. Not only had the madman shown up in a bedsheet of all things, he hadn't even had the decency to put on pants!

John sighed to himself as the taxi whisked them away to their newest case. "Okay. The smoking. How did you know?"

Sherlock smirked to himself. "The evidence is right under your nose, John. As ever you see but do not observe."

Confused, John asked, "Observe what?"

Sherlock slipped the cut crystal from his jacket, flipping it carelessly in his hands. "The ashtray," and put it away again.

Leave it to his flatmate to steal from the Royal Family just to make his friend smile.


	9. Even when you're gone

Sherlock had been gone for three days before John began to worry in earnest. Usually, his flatmate would at least text once he'd gotten settled wherever he managed to get himself off to, but no word in almost 80 hours had John practically crawling the walls of 221B.

He didn't like it when Sherlock was gone. John's place was by his side, keeping the genius from doing something stupid. Like getting himself killed.

And no matter what the Holmes' brothers believed, John Watson was no idiot, and he was certainly no fool. He knew where Sherlock had gone, and John would call you a liar - to your face - if you mentioned the pang in his heart and twist in his gut when he thought of Sherlock running off to be with Irene Adler. John knew he shouldn't be jealous. He and Sherlock were friends and colleagues, partners, nothing more. Sherlock could damn well do as he pleased with whomever he liked.

But John did _NOT_ trust The Woman.

Midnight on the fourth day found John in Sherlock's usual place at the window of their flat. How John had missed his friend walking in the front door of the Baker Street building was anyone's guess.

"John." Sherlock's baritone voice echoed in the dark and the still air of the sitting room, but John couldn't bring himself to turn around.

"How was Sussex?" The lie. The one Sherlock insisted on perpetrating in order to help _her_. The one John would allow to exist between them if only to prove to himself that it didn't matter.

John could hear the man roll his eyes as he removed his jacket and dropped his bag by the door.

"Dull."

"Right. Sorry about that." He couldn't trust himself to face Sherlock at that moment any more than he could have grown wings and flown out the window. And god, he wished he could do that.

John tucked his crossed arms tighter to his chest, holding in the ache that continued to grow. His damned left hand even started trembling again. _Stop it, stop it, STOP IT_.

"John?" Sherlock froze where he stood in the entry to the kitchen. "Something's wrong. What happened?"

John sighed and tucked his chin to his chest. "Nothing, Sherlock. It's nothing. Good night."

John managed, very carefully, to turn and make his way upstairs without looking at his flatmate, but paused on the landing. "Glad you're home."

** ** * ** **

Sherlock watched John _(slowly, carefully)_ ascend the stairs. That wasn't like John. He should have offered Sherlock tea, inquired as to the last time he'd eaten _(then badgered him relentlessly when Sherlock told him he hadn't eaten since he left London)_ , then sat with him and discussed the "case". John should not have trod to his bed like an old man whose knees ached in poor weather.

To be honest, Sherlock was more than a little glad John had gone to bed. He wasn't very confident in his ability to continue to outright lie to his friend any more than he'd already been forced. On top of this rather uncomfortable revelation, walking into 221B had brought another realization that has rendered him immobile for a few tense moments: Sherlock Holmes had missed John Watson much more than he thought himself able.

Somehow, this broken RAMC doctor had come along right when Sherlock needed him.

_No._

No, not broken. Battered, yes, but never broken.

John Watson appeared and brought a lightness that exposed the cracks in Sherlock's core self. He'd pushed away the darkness and the beast inside Sherlock that had threatened his sanity. The addiction, the noise, the terror of being alone but never strong enough to give himself to anyone. John Watson had made him better. And for what it was worth, Sherlock loved him for it.


	10. You make me smile like the sun (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And thus it begins...

Never again would John play Cluedo with Sherlock Holmes. The same force of conviction could be said of Greg Lestrade answering a late afternoon summons from one Mycroft Holmes' to his office in the Diogenes Club. Then, Greg had been kept waiting for close to an hour before Mycroft finally appeared, looking rumpled and exhausted.

Unbeknownst to Greg, Mycroft had been holding Jim Moriarty for weeks by then and had just met with the Consulting Criminal for the first time. After leaving the prison, Mycroft knew he needed Greg, needed to tell him, needed him to know, before Mycroft lost what felt like his very soul to the psychopath in his charge.

"Hello, Gregory."

"Mycroft."

"Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thanks." Greg crossed his arms over his chest and gave his best glare. "Why am I here, Mycroft? You had me waiting long enough."

Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in an uncharacteristically emotional manner. "Yes. I apologize for my delay. It was ... unavoidable." With drink in hand, Mycroft carefully lowered himself into his chair, sipped, and breathed carefully.

Greg worried. That was too easy. Mycroft never apologized - and meant it - as sincerely as he'd just sounded. "Mycroft? What's wrong? How can I help?"

Mycroft sat behind his desk, keeping his eyes on Greg. "I needed to see you Detective Inspector, for a very personal reason."

Greg remained quiet, standing, waiting, across from Mycroft's desk.

"Gregory, you've been an excellent influence on my brother, and I owe you much for that. You have my thanks and eternal gratitude."

Greg's eyebrows spiked into his hairline. "Yeah. Yeah, sure, Mycroft. No problem. I mean, he's not a treat to work with most of the time, but he's effective." Greg grinned at his assessment, knowing his description was very _(extremely)_ mild in comparison to the truth.

"Yes." Mycroft gazed off into a distance far away in his own mind. "He is at that." His laser-point gaze focused on Greg as he allowed a precious moment to steel himself. "Gregory, would you accompany me to dinner tonight?"

 _Ohgodohgodohgod._ Had he not been a cop far longer than anything else in his life, Greg Lestrade would have been a blithering mess on the floor. As it was, the dizzy spell that struck him...

"Um. Yeah... Okay. Sure, but there's no need. I mean, Sherlock's my friend, so..."

"No, that's not what I meant. I should have been more clear: Gregory, would you please join me for dinner, without any work or Sherlock or the rest of the world between us?"

Greg sat then, quite heavily, in the chair opposite Mycroft. "As in, a date?"

Mycroft cocked his head to the side and nodded once. "Yes. A date, if you will."

"So... you mean... you're... _interested_... in _me_?" Greg Lestrade will deny to the day he died that he squeaked the last word, but if it made Mycroft Holmes smile like that, he'd do it again and again and again.

"Yes."

Greg blew out an unsteady breath, grinning. For a moment, Mycroft had hope, and smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it wasn't clear, when Mycroft needs to tell Greg / needs Greg to know, it means he needs Greg to know he's not a cold, callous, heartless bastard, and he does have needs and desires. Lucky for Greg Lestrade, Mycroft needs him... ;)


	11. You make me dance like a fool

Mycroft and Greg's date turned into a takeaway dinner of chips as they strolled through Hyde Park.

Greg learned that Mycroft had (predictably) been born and raised in an upper class family _("Holmes Manor? Really?!" Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Yes, Gregory.")_ , gone to the best schools his entire life, and even graduated from University years ahead of his peerage. He'd been thrust immediately into the hurly-burly of the political world as an attache to MI5 and, later MI6 (as well as a few other alphabet-soup organizations around the world). A few well-placed words into the ears of people that actually listened found Mycroft in the Home Office doing what he did best: Everything.

Greg's own story was not as impressive, but Mycroft enjoyed it immensely. Raised in a middle-class family - two sisters, mother, father -, he'd decided he wanted to be a cop almost from the start. He'd worked very hard through school and on into University before being recruited and making his way up the ranks.

Greg Lestrade was damn good at what he did.

The pair stopped by the pond and sat on cold benches, silent but enjoying the evening and each other's company.

"I think I'd quite like to kiss you, Gregory."

Greg whipped his head so fast to the right, he heard his neck pop. Mycroft just raised an imperious eyebrow, making Greg smile widely, and The Eyebrow furrow in slight confusion.

"I think I'd quite like you to kiss me, Mycroft," Greg stated softly.

Mycroft met the older man's gaze for a moment - testing the waters, so to speak - before reaching out to cup Greg's cheek. Greg turned into that palm, nuzzling it slightly with cheek and lips, his breath dancing warm across the palm of Mycroft's hand before cooling as Greg inhaled an almost forgotten breath.

Mycroft pulled Greg to him, inhaling the man's unique scent and whispering his name softly, "Gregory," before fitting those lips across his own. Warm, soft, moist flesh pressed and parted, quickly deepening as tongues peeked out and swept against each other.

Greg was light-headed when he pulled back. He'd actually forgotten to breathe. Greg licked his lips, tasting his soon-to-be lover under the flavour of warm chips and salt."God, that's brilliant, My, " he groaned. "Again."

"My pleasure." The British Government smiled and veritably purred in pleasure before ducking back to his mate.


	12. Don't know how I lived without you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for a number of reasons.

John sat in Baker Street, still as a statue. It had been two weeks since Sherlock jumped.  
Two weeks since John watched as his best friend took his own life.  
Only a little more than one week since the funeral.

During the wake, John stood with eyes pinned to the casket. He sat quietly during the eulogies and other people's memories of Sherlock, as his vices and virtues were extolled by those that loved him or hated him.

He'd stood at the grave site, cane in hand as the minister intoned, "Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust," and what remained of John Watson blew away in the wind.

Greg stood with Mycroft - both men feeling as guilty as the other - watching John. Mummy Holmes _("Please, dear, call me Alice.")_ stood with her eldest - now only - son, holding his arm for support as she cried quietly.

Mycroft, to his credit, did not cry, but the pain and grief showed starkly in his usually stoic features. Greg's love was a strong man indeed.

John approached the hole where the casket has been laid to rest and, in place of a flower, dropped a medium-sized silk drawstring bag. Inside, John had placed precious memories: the remains of Sherlock's phone Lestrade's team had collected from the roof of St. Bart's, a tea candle from their table at Angelo's, a receipt from their last taxi fare, and John's dog tags. It thumped thickly against the wood as it landed. John paled to sick grey, swayed, and would have fallen had Angelo not been at his side.

Angelo himself dropped a white rose as Mrs. Hudson tossed her own, and both turned sentry at John's side. Even Harry had come. Sober for three months now, she stood beside her brother, with her arm around his waist. Others followed, but John never saw them. His gaze was fixed on the engraved black granite stone. John remained as everyone else departed, until the hole housing his best friend was filled, until the light mist that had begun in the afternoon turned into the evening's cold rain.

Angelo finally took it upon himself to guide John to a waiting taxi, instructing the driver to Baker Street and for Harry to "Please call. Anytime. For anything." A warm shower, change of clothes, a cup of tea, and Harry doing her best to bundle him into bed. "You need to rest, John." But still John waited for his mad friend to burst through the door in a whirl of coat and curls, to pull him, hardly-protesting, up and out for a case or the rare late-night dinner.

But Sherlock wasn't coming home.

So, for two weeks after Sherlock fell... jumped... died, John Watson just stayed alive. Today, though, he had an appointment with his therapist, but he'd make sure he took the time to visit Sherlock before his meeting.

 

 

"The stuff that you wanted to say. But didn't say it...," Ella began.

"Yeah." If words could choke, shred, tear, kill...

She continued, encouraging John-the-soldier, John-the-doctor. John-the-survivor. "Say it now."

She could actually see the walls slam up between them, shuttering the windows to the damaged soul barely shining in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, I can't."

 

 

That night, John stood at the window of 221B once more. His hand rested on the neck of Sherlock's violin as tears streaked his face. His leg was killing him, and his hand wouldn't stop shaking now.

His whispers broke the still air in a voice like broken glass. "How do you expect me to do this without you?" He swallowed around the lump in his throat. "You saved my life after I was invalided home, you know. It's likely I wouldn't have made it more than a year before I put a bullet in my head. We made each other better, I know it. And I saw it every time your eyes lit up with a new puzzle."

John choked on words knotting in his chest and clenched his hand around the neck of the violin. "I smiled more when I was with you than I had in years. And I have no idea when it happened, but _I loved you_ , you stupid idiot _bastard_." He growled the last word, but the anger had nothing to hold onto as it slipped on the oily surface inside him. "Even if I never told you." God, it hurt beyond the numbness, and pierced him relentlessly. If only he had the blood to show the holes it left.

"Please, Sherlock, please. _Please._ Come home. God, please come home. I need you."

John's breaths were coming in gasps, grey and black eating at the edges of his vision as he hyperventilated. He pulled the violin to his chest with the last of his strength, cradling it like a child and keeping it safe as his leg finally gave out. He crashed to the floor, striking his head against the table and knocking over a huge number of books.

The last he heard before falling into the abyss was Harry's unmistakable voice screaming his name.

The last thought he had before letting go: _Take me with you._


	13. You make me dance like a fool (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hurt me to write it. I was a crying mess.

Three years after Sherlock's death, Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes were married. Both men were ridiculously happy, and everyone in attendance could see it in each gesture and glance.

Mrs. Hudson and Mummy Holmes leaned on each other and cried as "their boys" were joined, while John smiled and applauded from his seat next to Harry and Clara. Their reconciliation had prompted Greg to propose to Mycroft. (Granted it had been while Greg had been in hospital recovering from multiple gunshot wounds received in the line of duty, but he'd done it nonetheless.)

The reception at Holmes Manor was beautiful, tasteful, extravagant, and absolutely the perfect mix of Mycroft and Greg. John had been angry with both men for such a long time, so this was the perfect chance for him to show he'd really forgiven them for their parts in Sherlock's death.

John knew now that nothing would have made a difference in the end. _(Sherlock would still be dead, but at least John might have been given the chance to put the bullet in Dear Jim's head.)_ Of course, he'd gone through all the grief and grieving stages, but the numbness never fully passed. It sat like a wall of ice and dust around his heart and lungs, making breathing quite difficult at times. Running was outright impossible.

John's greatest regret was not showing his best friend how much he truly meant to him, and so would always believe he'd let his dearest friend down in some way - what else would have made Sherlock believe he had no other choice? But John would be damned if he would ever believe Sherlock was a fake.

He'd proven that, too. John Watson, with help from the British Government and Scotland Yard, had cleared Sherlock Holmes of all charges, including fraud, kidnapping, assault, murder, obstruction of justice, and perjury.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of man-hours culminated on the second anniversary of Sherlock's fall. He'd even, finally, been posthumously knighted. (When Mycroft told John this, both men had laughed through their tears as a mental picture of Sherlock's signature sneer mixed with revulsion and a dash of horror as the "threat" had been fulfilled. They'd remained at 221B for the remainder of the evening, mending fences, and getting thoroughly pissed.)

John had also managed to lose the cane again - on his own - about eighteen months after, but the tremor in his left hand remained. He'd also gained a nice little scar that ran from his temple almost to the tragus of his right ear as a result of his fall all those nights ago. Poor Harry. He'd scared the life out of her, and after his release from hospital, made absolutely sure he took care of himself to ensure it never happened again. Especially if the walloping he got after being released was any indication...

John was happy for them: Harry and Clara; Greg and Mycroft. Really, he was. He smiled at the new couple as they danced past where he lounged against a wall, sipped his champagne, and enjoyed the remainder of the day.

Later in the evening, after dinner finished and drinks had been dispensed, John stepped outside for a bit of fresh air. He heard wild bees humming in the gardens and, breathing deeply, could almost smell a hint of his lost friend. The sudden realization that, of course he'd smell him here - Sherlock had only grown up in this house! - made John laugh to himself, exercising long-forgotten muscles.

"It's good to hear that again, John. I've not heard you laugh for such a long time." Alice Holmes had walked up behind him while he'd been lost in his own head, then lit a cigarette as she came to a stop at his side. She grinned at him slyly, "Shh! Don't tell Mycroft!"

John laughed again and mock whispered, "It's our secret."

The pair stood in silence, enjoying the dusk light while Alice enjoyed her smoke.

As she tamped it out, she said softly, "I never did thank you for everything you did for my sons."

"Alice..."

"No, John. I didn't, and I should have. Every day. My boys were great men, but you helped make them good men."

A flashback to the day John met Gregory Lestrade made him smile. "It was an honour."

"Yes, I believe you mean that, and for that I love you as my own." She took John's hand in her own slight one. He could feel the strong muscles flex around the delicate bones of her musician's hands.

"Thank you, Alice."

"You loved him, didn't you?" Her soft, almost-whisper, had him jerking his head round to face an beautiful face dominated by bright, vibrant, blue-green eyes.

John swallowed around the lump in his throat and felt something crack in his chest. "Yes," he croaked, then cleared his throat. "Yes, I did. Very much. And I miss him every day."

Alice nodded and looked out over the gardens. It had grown quite dark as they stood there, without him even realizing it. Alice squeezed his hand in her own. "Come, John. Let go back inside before we both catch a chill."

It was strangely quiet in the wake of a wedding, but John had guessed - deduced, and very correctly - the guests had congratulated the happy couple and taken their leave. As they approached the library, he heard muffled sobs. His heart rate shot up as he pulled his hand from Alice's, rushed forward, and threw open the door.

"Mycroft? Greg? What's wrong?"

Mycroft had his arms wrapped around a man that most definitely was _not_ his husband. Said husband was standing to the side, grinning like a loon, with tears in his eyes.

"What the hell is... Oh." John froze.

The man released his hold on Mycroft and both mirrored a hand on the other's cheek before Mycroft tossed his head in John's direction. John felt all the blood in his body evaporate as Sherlock Bloody Holmes turned his vulpine gaze on him. "Oh," again slipped from tingling, numb lips. "It's you."

Mycroft put his arm around Greg's waist and watched what he hoped would be a happy reunion. Sherlock only tucked his shaking hands in his pockets and smiled softly in John's direction. "Hello, John."

Not taking his eyes from the ghost before him, John maneuvered through the furniture to stand less than a foot away, then raised a hand to poke a finger into the spectre's chest. "So." he murmured. "You're very real this time. Interesting."

Well, now that was unexpected. As one, four people in the room started and paled. John didn't notice, attention completely taken by the play of light on ghostly buttons. Slowly, his gaze traveled up, locked on the silver-blue eyes he'd missed so dearly.

"I guess I've gone 'round the bend for good this time. You've never been this solid before. And you hugged Mycroft, so I know it's another lie. Details, you see. Well, _observe_. Must be sure to observe." John's softly murmured words felt absent, hollow, and scared his friends - his family. How could they have missed this?

"You've seen me, then? Since...?"

John nodded and broke his gaze to trace the line of Sherlock's shoulder down, down, to long-fingered, deceptively strong hands. "Yes. Lots. Too much. But I can do this," John reached out again, hand hovering in the air in front of Sherlock's chest, over his heart. "I've done it before, I'll do it again. It's okay." John poked Sherlock's chest again, looked him in the eye. "I'm sorry, but you're not real. You're gone." His voice cracked and he shook his head slightly, "Dead and not real."

Sherlock reached a hand out to grasp his only friend's hand, but John stumbled back, jerking his arm up and away with a shouted, "NO!"

"John? John, please. You're scaring me."

John laughed darkly, stepped back again. The numbness was creeping from the outside now, tendrils wrapping cold fingers around his brain. " _Scaring you_? Ha! Y'see? Not real." John fixed his gaze on his love's ghost and its outstretched hand again. "Not real," John said lowly. "Never real."

He turned sharply, saw Alice in the doorway, pale and shaking with a hand over her mouth. A stab of disappointment shot through him and he hung his head in shame. "Sorry, Alice. Good night." John kissed her cheek, streaked with tears, and exited the room.

A quiet baritone "John?" followed him.

John clasped his hands over his ears as he all but ran to his room. His room. His only sanctuary away from Baker Street. Now that wasn't even enough.

This _had_ to stop. Sherlock had followed John for years, his voice pushing him along, keeping him going, reminding him to stop seeing, to observe. His shadowy form would be tucked into his chair in 221B some nights - the nights John would come home from the surgery exhausted. Those nights, they'd talk. Low enough not to worry Mrs. Hudson, but enough that Sherlock's deep voice would rumble through the air to John, settling him and easing his mind. Those nights, John would watch his love fade into shadow, into dust and nothing, before taking himself off to bed to start again the next day.

One morning, he'd woken to find Sherlock watching him as he slept. Silver-blue eyes traced muscle movement in John's face as he woke, as he smiled, as he blinked slow and even, as John spoke. "You can't do this, you know. People will talk about the crazy doctor that talks to his best friend's ghost."

"People do little else, John," whispered across the short expanse.

"Yes, I suppose they do." John sighed and reached out, his hand whispering through his friend's image as he tried to touch. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes," he whispered.

"John...," and he faded away once more.

This was the final straw. John Watson could handle a lot, but this... This was too much. He ran to his room, grabbed keys and wallet, and tore back out.

Sherlock stood in the hall, waiting, but John just clenched his eyes shut, covered his ears, and ran for the first time in more than three years.

God, he could run fast. He'd forgotten that. It almost felt good.

John made it out the front door to the car he'd hired and fired the engine just as Alice ran outside calling his name. He clenched his teeth and gunned the engine down the drive.

Alice sobbed, "Oh god, Sherlock. Oh god, how could we have missed this?"

Sherlock put his arms around his mother in a quick hug, kissed the top of her head. "I'll bring him home, I promise."

Greg and Mycroft burst from the house, Greg running to his own car while Mycroft called to his brother, "Come on!"

 

 

John hadn't been driving long before he realized he was driving by the light of the full moon. He sighed to himself and flicked the lights on, illuminating a downed tree across the lane.

"Shit!"

He slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel to the side, but his speed was enough to make that futile. The bumper dug into the wood, shattering into tiny pieces while the engine was crushed under the impact. At the same time, the velocity and angle with which the car hit caused the front of the car to dig down as the rear of the car shot up. The rental flipped over the tree trunk, impacted with the asphalt, and rolled twice down the road before continuing off the shoulder and coming to a stop with the roof of the car crushed against the body of a centuries-old tree.

Less than a kilometer away, Mycroft, Greg, and Sherlock watched in horror as a giant fireball exploded in the night sky and shockwaves shook the air.

"No. NO! JOHN!" Sherlock screamed and would have jumped from the speeding car if Mycroft had not restrained him bodily.

"Sherlock, stop! Stop! He might be okay. John could very well be fine! Now, stop!" Mycroft swallowed against the lie. Both heard Greg calling for Fire and Rescue, as well as an ambulance, until a loud "SHIT!" and swerving of their car tossed each man around.

"Greg? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Oh god, My, there's a tree on the lane."

Sherlock was pushing against Mycroft, scrambling to get up, out, away, to find John.

The devastation was amazing. The downed rotted timber was shredded and broken into huge chunks that would require heavy machinery to remove. Pieces littered the road and showed the track the car had taken. Glass, plastic, and metal interspersed with oil and gasoline smears and streaks. Impact points and gouges in the asphalt. The remains of the car against the tree, both burning furiously.

Sherlock saw nothing but the quickly burning wreckage. He took off running toward the car screaming John's name, but was immediately tackled by Greg.

"Get OFF of me! I have to save him. Please! John! JOHN!" Sherlock's voice cracked as he screamed.

"What, you great berk? Stop screaming." A bruised and bloodied John Watson staggered up the small embankment cradling his arm against his side in obvious pain. "Ugh. Damnit, my head hurts." Mycroft hurried to him, settling John on the remains of the tree to check pupil reaction and trying to staunch flow of blood from the rather large cuts John now sported.

"Ow! Damnit, Mycroft, stop touching!" John's words were starting to slur and his vision waver. "Shit. I've got a concussion. Damnit. I hate concussions."

"It's okay, John. The ambulance is on the way, but I need you to stay still, okay?"

"Yeah. Right. 'Kay." He looked around carefully. "Mycroft," John whispered.

"Yes, John?" Mycroft whispered, automatically matching his tone out of some ingrained childhood secret-sharing habit.

"Greg is sitting on Sherlock. Could you ask him to move?"

Mycroft watched his friend for a moment before turning to his new husband. "Greg, please get off of Sherlock."

John nodded carefully, slowly, as Greg levered himself up. His attempt at restraining Sherlock failed spectacularly as the man ripped away and ran, slid, to where John sat against the broken tree trunk.

"Thanks, My... Myc... Hmmm... Yeah."

"My pleasure, John."

The sirens were louder now, less than a minute away.

John gripped Mycroft's hand tightly, tighter than Mycroft expected John capable after losing what looked to be quite a bit of blood. "Don' lettem ta' me, My. M'sorry I din tell ya I was seein' 'im. Please, My. M'no crazy, pr'mise."

"It's alright, John. No one's taking you. I promise."

Sherlock whimpered at John's side, holding a bloody mess of fabric against John's ribs.

Suddenly, John's skin and lips went sheet white and his eyes glazed as he looked toward Sherlock. "Miss you, Sher... A'ways... b'leev'd n'you." Blood bubbled and dribbled from between his lips and Sherlock's eyes went wide in terror.

"Mycroft! He's bleeding internally!"

The earth tilted on its axis, but John never broke eye contact with his love. John smiled softly. "Love you. Sh'lock Ho'mes." The black ate his vision, stole his breath, hurt, and sucked him down, down, down until he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate that I keep hurting John, but Sherlock made it way to easy to abuse him.


	14. You make me smile like the sun (3)

A week after the wreck, John was moved from Critical Care to a private room with 24-hour observation.

Miraculously, John had been tossed from the car before it slammed into the tree, but the impacts with the street and the various broken pieces in the cabin of the car had scored and punctured his body in several places - a number of which were very close to major arteries.

"Half a millimeter more and he'd have been dead in minutes. He's lucky."

Lucky didn't even cover it: Concussion, lacerations, punctures, blood loss, bruising, and a dislocated shoulder (His bad shoulder, at that.) It was a damned miracle.

So, eight days after the incident with the tree, John Watson cracked open an eyelid to be presented with a white ceiling, fluorescent lighting, and the smell of sterile procedure and recovering illness.

Hospital.

He felt the soreness in his throat left over from the intubation, moved the oxygen mask from his face, and briefly wished for water. Only briefly because the pressure on his hand was shifting.

Very carefully, John turned his head and looked down, seeing too-long, curly black hair, and a pale, long-fingered hand wrapped around his wrist. Those same hands, tucked under a sharp cheekbone, were being bathed with the sleeping breath of one Sherlock Holmes.

It hurt again, that space in his chest.

It wasn't fair. Why give him this fantasy, the one thing he'll never have? Tears burned his dried out eyes, tracked down his cheeks, choked him. A quiet sob woke the sleeping ghost by his bedside with a jerk.

"John?"

John clenched his eyes shut. _No, no, nononono, please stop this._ He couldn't breathe. _Oh god, stop this please._

The pressure left his hand, loud shouting from the door, and the knot in his head twisted a tiny bit when as a nurse came running in. She refitted the oxygen mask over his face and injected his medications into his IV. John felt his bones practically melt in relief. 

Mycroft and Greg entered not long after, bearing coffee and bags of takeaway. John croaked at them, "You bastards. Bet you didn't bring me any."

Greg laughed, "Sorry, mate, but no real food for you just yet. Get the okay from the doctor and it's all yours."

John smiled and pointed to himself, "Doctor," gave a thumbs up, "Okay," held out a hand, "Coffee?"

"Pfft! Ha! Good one! No." Greg shook his head at the doctor as Mycroft laughed lowly at them.

Mycroft looked to John, worry still clear on his usually stoic features. "John, where is Sherlock?"

John glared at the ceiling as if it had committed some great sin. "Not here. Left when I woke up." The world was getting a bit loopy again.

Mycroft frowned. "That's... odd."

"Yeah. Sorry. Shoulda told you 'bout the h'luc'nations. Was scared."

Mycroft put his coffee down and walked to John's bedside. "John. Listen very carefully: That was not a hallucination. _Sherlock_ was not a hallucination. He's alive. He's real. He's home, John."

John lay in the bed, staring, hardly able to believe... "How?"

Greg swallowed his bite of burger and answer for his husband _(Husband!)_. "The way he tells it, Moriarty had snipers trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and me. He did the only thing he could think of to save us. He faked it. All of it."

"Faked bein' a fake?"

Greg chuckled, "Yeah, that's about it. So, he's spent the last three years hunting down the ties to Moriarty, taking down the bad guys, and solving the puzzles of the world. Not been simple, if the way he looks is anything to go by."

A voice from the doorway interrupted them, "My looks notwithstanding, it got the job done. Mycroft, please remove yourself back to your husband. Now."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother, but smiled at him indulgently. "Come, Greg. Let's leave these two to catch up."

Alone for the first time in three years and he didn't have to question his sanity anymore. It was a heady thing, to be sure.

"So. Real?"

"As ever, John."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

John smiled at him.

"So, you love me?"

Well, that killed that. John bit his lip, closed his eyes, and nodded as he turned away.

"Good. Because I love you, too."

Okay, ow. Jerking one's head to the side after recently waking from injuries sustained in a major car accident? Not the best idea he's ever had, especially since the lovely drugs in his bloodstream made everything go a bit wonky for a moment. But really, what's a guy to do when he hears something like that?

 

 

Two weeks after waking up in hospital and finding his best friend to be well and truly living, John Watson was wheeled out of Princess Grace Hospital and into a taxi to return him to the relative safety of Baker Street.

During his two week convalescence, Sherlock had not left John's side for more than an hour at a time. He would curl up in a chair to watch his friend sleep, would wrap a hand around John's wrist to feel the beat pulsing there, or might rest his head against the bed and tuck John's captured hand under his own cheek. After so long away, Sherlock was not in the least bit comfortable to be so near John and not be able to touch him.

The one night Sherlock slept in the visitor's chair and out from John's reach had turned out very badly indeed. Sherlock had managed to drift off, finally succumbing to sleep after more than three days awake. His rest was still, would have been deep and refreshing. _Would have been_ , being the operative phrase, had John not cried out in his sleep, thrashing about and jerking, whimpering Sherlock's name. Sherlock, unsure of what to do since restraining John could have hurt him more, settled for grasping John's hand tightly and chanting his name.

"John. John, wake up. It's just a dream, John. I'm here, alive, I promise. Wake up, John. John."

"Sh'rlock?"

"Yes, John. Wake up. You were dreaming, but you need to wake up now, alright?"

"Hmmm... 'Kay." John shuffled in the bed, successfully managing not to tear any stitches or loosen any bandaging. "You sleepin'?"

"Considering it." Sherlock quirked up the side of his mouth in a small smile, squeezed John's hand once.

"Good. Need sleep. C'mere." John tugged on his hand, weak in his half-asleep state.

"What?"

"C'mere. You need sleep. Rest. C'mup here 'n do it. Issa nice bed. Com'for'ble." John giggled a bit, knowing he sounded ridiculous, but really just could not be bothered to care. Carefully, he shifted to the side, extricated his hand from Sherlock's hold, and patted the bedding to encourage Sherlock to crawl in.

"John, I don't think that's the best idea. I don't wish to inadvertently hurt you..."

"Oh, shaddup and get up here already." John rolled his eyes exasperation clear in the moonlight shining through the window.

"Fine, fine." Sherlock kicked off his shoes and suit jacket, then oh so carefully did as John bid. Sherlock curled on his side facing John, placing one hand over John's chest to feel a strong heartbeat kick against his sternum.


	15. Oh, You make me smile - A Conclusion

Six months after Sherlock's miraculous rise from the grave saw 221B in a state very eerily similar to what it had been over three years before:

Experiments on the kitchen table.  
Half-full mugs of tea gone cold scattered over numerous surfaces.  
The skull on the mantle keeping guard.  
Sherlock's greatcoat hanging from the back of the door alongside John's black shooting jacket.  
Body parts _(now more sufficiently labelled)_ in the refrigerator, safely away from an empty carton of milk.  
Case files on the sitting room table and worktop.  
Fresh bullet holes in the newly spray-painted smiley face.

As the sun dawned lazily in the morning sky, alighting London with new promises and mysteries, warming the chilled air, and signaling the start of the day for many of the city's inhabitants, it also noticed the changes:

Remains of a dinner enjoyed but abandoned.  
A blue dressing gown discarded over the back of a high-backed chair.  
Shirt and jumper tossed haphazardly in the kitchen, and more apparel leaving a trail easy enough for even Anderson to follow.  
A bedroom door cracked open just a bit.  
Finally, the slight exhalations and soft snores of the two lovers entwined in the detective's bed.

Morning was kind to them. Her light pooled soft between the cracks on the curtains, lit up lingering dust motes in the stillness, and traced the barest curve of a hip as it laid under coverlets. Said hip shifted a bit, sliding closer to its companion and reveling in the warmth of shared body heat. One long, pale arm slid across a broadly muscled chest and up to cup a scarred shoulder. A strong and slightly tanned arm curled up to tug his mate closer, placed another sturdy hand on a hip. Legs entwined and tightened reflexively.

Morning saw this and rejoiced, spreading the word to London and beyond. _Let them rest_ , it said. _Leave them in peace, even for just a moment more. Let them rest._  
The next few days saw the lowest domestic crime rate in almost a hundred years.  
The Tube had few late arrivals or departures.  
Traffic accidents and petty thefts were at an all-time low.  
Even the ever-changing Thames behaved itself.  
London sang with Morning Light and crowed its happiness with the chiming of the clocks and bells. _Let them rest_ , London proclaimed, _because there's much more to be done, my darlings. Much more, indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read, and possibly review, my _(technically)_ first "Sherlock" story.
> 
> I found the series slightly less than a year ago and have watched each episode numerous times. I sincerely hope the past chapters have met your satisfaction and will prompt you to let me know what you think.
> 
> Future endeavors into this world will be forthcoming, and I love input, ideas, prompts, etc. *wink*wink*  
> Besides, John has some things he needs to say, and Sherlock desperately needs to know. It's part and parcel of being himself.
> 
> Vala


End file.
